短篇小说 | Federigo's Falcon
There was once in Florence a young man named Federigo, the son of Messer Filippo Alberighi, renowned above all other men in Tuscany for his prowess in arms and for his courtliness.
There was once in Florence a young man named Federigo, the son of Messer Filippo Alberighi, renowned above all other men in Tuscany for his prowess in arms and for his courtliness.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call.
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
Weigall, continental and detached, tired early of grouse shooting.
"Bully for you!" thundered Whispering Ben from the darkness of the royal chamber.
He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.
I did not take temporary editorship of an agricultural paper without misgivings.
Hyacinth wriggled back, and sent a short ladder down through the window of the inner stye.
Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening could possibly be worse.
IN the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree.
THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road.
"I don't suppose," mused Clovis, as an early train bore him townwards, "that they will be in the least grateful for the Unrest-cure."
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